What’s noticeably absent this year that was so prevalent the years previous is pain.  I’m really not hurting, per se, and that’s different.  Instead, what I feel is just emptiness, plain ol’ emptiness, like there’s just a great big hole right in the middle of me where something super important should be.  It’s not pain.  It’s just empty.

Maggie used to surprise me with the greatest gifts on Christmas morning.  She’d sneak a real zinger onto my pillow when I ran to the bathroom or let the dogs out.  (She was sneaky!) When I’d return, she’d offer a grin and a giggle as I opened it.  I loved those moments.  But this morning, no gift, no grin, no giggle.  Just silence.  So instead of spinning up for a fun day of Christmas festivities, I laid in bed alone for two hours, pondering what’s left of my life.  (It’s just remarkable how I’m still very profoundly affected by all of what has happened.)

Empty….

But empty beats crippling sadness and pain.

In our other life together, today we’d be frantically preparing for a huge party here at the house Saturday night to celebrate her birthday. A whole ton of friends would descend on this well-prepped house for hours of festivities. And then, after all the guests had left for the evening, she and me and two tired puppies would crawl into bed, all smiles. Instead, tonight I’ll attend a different party thrown by some friends, one that in some ways was born from the end of our party. Some of the same friends will be there that would have been at our party. Many attendees will be people I’ve never met. It will be a wonderful party. It will also be the most difficult party I’ll attend this year, by far. There will be one face I always searched for missing. And two hands I used to hold not there. And a voice I won’t hear talk in excited tones about how life is great. And that one, singular beautiful smile I won’t see. It’s hard to fathom how a person can be so sad in the middle of a huge crowd of happy people.

But I’ll put on my party face and pretend. Hopefully this year I’ll only have to excuse myself only once or twice (unlike last year.) If someone sees me in those moments, hopefully they’ll understand why I’m still sad and, even if they are tired of my grief, pretend just for a minute they aren’t. I assure you, I’m tired of it, too.

“Don’t be sad because it’s over. Be happy because it happened.” I keep reminding myself that over and over and over. Such difficult-to-live words that will feel very empty tonight as I stand alone without my angel in the middle of a huge, happy crowd.

Happy Birthday, My Love. I love you no less today than I did yesterday and no more than I will tomorrow. And I miss you every single day.

Shoes. We take for granted that these little bits of leather, plastic and rivets will be ready for any adventure that pops up. We assume they will support and protect us as we walk over hot sidewalks and soft carpets. And at the end of the day, it’s nice to take them off and place them next to another pair of still-warm, well-traveled shoes. Shoes are at the start and the end of every adventure.

Maggie loved shoes. Her eyes would light up when she saw a pair that tickled her fancy. She’d be so excited to bring them home that she’d walk around the house wearing them like she was a model putting on a show. I don’t know for certain but I imagine that in each pair she saw a lifetime of adventures to be experienced. She loved adventures, large and small. I loved seeing her happy. Ergo, I loved her shoes.

Sunday I packed up 118 pair of adventures not taken and put them into boxes to be given away, or rather, set out on adventures that wouldn’t include she or me. The careful process of moving each pair from the closet where they’ve sat for more than two years frozen in time was painful. Each pair represented a thousand adventures we’ll never have together and a million memories we’ll never create.

Some shoes looked pristine as though they had never been worn. The mysteries surrounding these shoes made me wonder what grand adventure she was dreaming about when she bought them. Where was she planning to go or what was she planning to do while wearing these shoes? I am sad that she never got the chance to walk a mile in those shoes. I’m sad that each of these pair of untouched pumps, flats, boots or heels represents so many unrealized dreams and adventures not taken. For each pair, I mourn the loss of what we didn’t have. I’m sad because she was sad that life was cut short too soon. She definitely wasn’t done living. She, rather, WE had miles and miles still to go together, hand-in-hand.

The others, obviously her go-to shoes, showed her love with well-worn soles. Many of those scuffs and scratches we made together and I miss her and those moments dearly. I suppose now is the time to be reminded of the sage advice of Dr. Seuss: “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”

Crap. Why is it that the shoes hurt so much? They are just f-ing shoes.

Crap.

Because it happened… Yes. I’ll smile. I’ll keep smiling through my tears.

The business of change presses on.

While I was meddling in that area of the kitchen, I took down five pictures of Maggie that I had taped up to the tile years ago. In some of the pictures, she was cuddling Nurse Jolie’s new-born daughter Anya making loving baby faces I’d never get to see as she held our own new-born children. Another picture was a favorite that she had given me to keep in my briefcase as I traveled. Her glowing smile reminded me of happier, more-innocent days. All those pictures are packed away now and that wall looks bare.

The real challenge, however, was the non-descript pile of papers stuffed back in the corner. These little landmines were about 20% of the total clutter but about 90% of the total explosive power. There was just no way to handle this pile of razor blades without bleeding. But I’m now in the business of change. Sometimes change is hard. So I dove in and bled all over the place. Now those papers are somewhere different and less overt and one day I’ll put them somewhere else a little farther away. Perhaps just moving them (and likewise slicing into those scabbed-over wounds) dulled those little razor blades just a little bit so that the next time I move them they won’t cut me quite so badly.

It’s an odd feeling, doing this. Yes, I feel sad but I also feel a sense of cleansing or of refreshing. I don’t feel like I’m betraying Maggie and that’s the best thing. I really thought I’d be struggling with that but that specific feeling is conspicuously absent and its absence is, well, welcome. In fact, I feel less like I’m putting away and more like I’m making room.

(As I type this I’m sitting in Starbuck’s in downtown Austin. It’s busy and loud and crowded. After I typed that last sentence about making room, my fingers remained perched above the keys and the little cursor blinked on the right side of the period encouraging me to continue. Suddenly, the music paused, the crowd inexplicably got silent and the barista said quite clearly and loudly to some anonymous customer “Sometimes you gotta move on.” I suppose messages are everywhere if you just pay attention.)

On with the business of change.

No lighting struck.  No drums rolled.  No sad music played.  It was just me, the puppies and my staid emotions as I carried the dried bouquet of roses to the back of our my house.  Without fanfare, I grabbed the bunch by the stems, crunched them together as the brittle peddles disintegrated, and tossed them onto the compost pile.  Of course, because nothing goes quite as plan, a few roses didn’t make the trip onto the pile but I didn’t feel like walking down into the ditch to gather them together again.  Where they landed, they’ll stay.  It was done.

That bouquet of very dead and dried roses has sat on her side of the bathroom now for years.  It’s uncomfortable to call that out – years.  But sat they did, right next to her driver’s license and the cute little hat she wore after she lost all her hair.  Now the bouquet is in the refuse pile, the driver’s license is in a special-memories box, and her cute little hat is in the closet.  It’s amazing how the absence of a few small things can paint a room empty.

Now the bathroom truly looks like a bachelor’s bathroom – empty (just don’t open any drawers.)

How is it that I’ve been ok with a bouquet of roses that has been sitting in the same spot for years?  My psychologist, the one I’ve seen weekly since Maggie started getting very ill, calls this state of inertia “business as usual.”  In my professional life, I’ve never stood for business as usual.  Standing still too long kill opportunities, breeds laziness, and stifles innovation.  Yet, in my personal life, I had a bouquet of roses sitting on the counter in my bathroom for years – more than 850 days.  (Today, by the way, marks 856 days since Maggie’s Angel Day – 6 days longer than she was officially sick.)

How many other things in my life are “business as usual” that are keeping me stuck?  What other virtual bouquets are around the house I’ve been looking over now for years?  Am I ready to see them?  Better yet, am I ready to move them?

Today, business as usual became new business – the business of change.

People have asked me over and over what they can do for me.  Here’s your chance.  Share this post so people who haven’t experienced such a loss as Maggie and I have will better understand what those of us who have are going through.  There are a lot of us around who need your support.  Sadly, you may too one day be in the same situation.  Wouldn’t it be better if those around you knew how to help?  Please share this.

How You Can Help Me

Please talk about my loved one, even though he is gone. It is more comforting to cry than to pretend that he never existed. I need to talk about him, and I need to do it over and over.

Be patient with my agitation. Nothing feels secure in my world. Get comfortable with my crying. Sadness hits me in waves, and I never know when my tears may flow. Just sit with me in silence and hold my hand.

Don’t abandon me with the excuse that you don’t want to upset me. You can’t catch my grief. My world is painful, and when you are too afraid to call me or visit or say anything, you isolate me at a time when I most need to be cared about. If you don’t know what to say, just come over, give me a hug or touch my arm, and gently say, “I’m sorry.” You can even say, “I just don’t know what to say, but I care, and want you to know that.”

Just because I look good does not mean that I feel good. Ask me how I feel only if you really have time to find out.

I am not strong. I’m just numb. When you tell me I am strong, I feel that you don’t see me. I will not recover. This is not a cold or the flu. I’m not sick. I’m grieving and that’s different. My grieving may only begin 6 months after my loved one’s death. Don’t think that I will be over it in a year. For I am not only grieving his death, but also the person I was when I was with him, the life that we shared, the plans we had for our children, the places we will never get to go together, and the hopes and dreams that will never come true. My whole world has crumbled and I will never be the same.

I will not always be grieving as intensely, but I will never forget my loved one and rather than recover, I want to incorporate his life and love into the rest of my life. He is a part of me and always will be, and sometimes I will remember him with joy and other times with a tear. Both are okay.

I don’t have to accept the death. Yes, I have to understand that it has happened and it is real, but there are some things in life that are just not acceptable. When you tell me what I should be doing, then I feel even more lost and alone. I feel badly enough that my loved one is dead, so please don’t make it worse by telling me I’m not doing this right. And remember, I was a capable adult before his death and I still am.

Please don’t tell me I can find someone else or that I need to start dating again. I may not be ready. And maybe I don’t want to be. And besides, what makes you think people are replaceable? They aren’t. Whoever comes after will always be someone different.

I don’t even understand what you mean when you say, “You’ve got to get on with your life.” My life is going on, I’ve been forced to take on many new responsibilities and roles. It may not look the way you think it should. This will take time and I will never be my old self again. So please, just love me as I am today, and know that with your love and support, the joy will slowly return to my life. But I will never forget and there will always be times that I cry.

I need to know that you care about me. I need to feel your touch, your hugs. I need you just to be with me, and I need to be with you. I need to know you believe in me and in my ability to get through my grief in my own way, and in my own time.

Please don’t say, “Call me if you need anything.” I’ll never call you because I have no idea what I need. Trying to figure out what you could do for me takes more energy than I have. So, in advance, let me give you some ideas:

(a) Bring food or a movie over to watch together.

(b) Send me a card on special holidays, our wedding anniversary, his birthday, and the anniversary of his death, and be sure to mention his name. You can’t make me cry. The tears are here and I will love you for giving me the opportunity to shed them because someone cared enough about me to reach out on this difficult day.

(c) Ask me more than once to join you at a movie or lunch or dinner. I may say no at first or even for a while, but please don’t give up on me because somewhere down the line, I may be ready, and if you’ve given up then I really will be alone.

(d) Understand how difficult it is for me to be surrounded by couples, to walk into events alone, to feel out of place in the same situations where I used to feel so comfortable.

Please don’t judge me now – or think that I’m behaving strangely. Remember I’m grieving. I may even be in shock. I am afraid. I may feel deep rage. I may even feel guilty. But above all, I hurt. I’m experiencing a pain unlike any I’ve ever felt before and one that can’t be imagined by anyone who has not walked in my shoes.

Don’t worry if you think I’m getting better and then suddenly I seem to slip backward. Grief makes me behave this way at times. And please don’t tell me you know how I feel, or that it’s time for me to get on with my life. What I need now is time to grieve. Most of all thank you for being my friend. Thank you for your patience.

Thank you for caring. Thank you for helping, for understanding.

And remember in the days or years ahead, after your loss – when you need me as I have needed you – I will understand. And then I will come and be with you.

–Author Unknown

My head shrink tells me that the two-year mark is a psychologically significant, that people who learn the news can get their heads around two years without experiencing much of an associated shock.  Somehow “more than two years ago” is less jarring than “18 months ago” or even “20 months ago.”  “More than two years” can be dismissed as “some non-descript time in the past.”  If it happened more than two years ago, then it basically didn’t happen, right?  Oh, anyone who makes that little misguided assumption is going to be quite surprised one day….

I know that May 4 will always be a day for many people to remember to be sad that Maggie isn’t here anymore.  I know people gathered in various parts of the town to drink wine and toast her life that day.  I also know that my reaction to that date confuses some people and they wonder why I’m not more sad.  But as I’ve said before (exactly last year about this time), May 4^th is just another day to me, just another long day without my baby to hold, just like May 3, May 2, May 1, or even February 28, or February 14, or <fill any significant or not significant date here>.  Just another day.

I suppose in some ways I look forward to when May 4^th will be a reminder for me to remember her.  Perhaps May 4^th will become more significant as my daily emotional noise lessens.  As the little reminders, the firsts, the lasts, and the landmines fade to rare occurrences instead of the daily or hourly occurrences they are now, one day I’ll forget to remember.  Then May 4^th will remind me.  You know, just in case I forgot.

Until then, May 4^th is just another day – one more day without my baby.

I love you, My Baby, no matter where you are.  I miss you no more today than I did yesterday and no less than I will tomorrow.

Today will be a continuation of a process that started a long time ago.  But today is different; I’m bringing in help.  Mom Mary and Sister Lori are coming over and we, together, are going to sort through some more of Maggie’s stuff.  There’s still so much to go through.  I’m not sure how much we will get done but any progress is movement forward and movement is good.  Still, I both fear and look forward to the work.

I suppose until Mary and Lori get here I could go work in the garden.  It could certainly use some love.  It’s been several years since we tended it together and working alone seems so….  Pointless. But watching the plants and flower grow do make me smile still, just not as sweetly.  I always felt as we worked the dirt together we were building a foundation for happy times to come as a couple.  Now, I’m not sure why it’s worth the effort.  Sure, it looks nice.  I enjoy the flowers.  But it just doesn’t seem as meaningful.

Over the last number of years I’ve let the yard and garden really go.  It used to be a breathtaking work of nature (and our hands.)  We loved working in it, on it and watching it grow.  It was a labor of together love.  But as she got sicker, priorities had to be rearranged and the gardening fell out, that is, unless she wanted to go play in it.  Then, later, I pretty much lost interest.  Well, that’s not quite true.  I still love the garden.  I just didn’t care about anything anymore.  It’s funny how this garden has reflected the health, both mental and physical, of the people in this house.

….

Even though moments have passed since you started reading this post, hours have passed since I started typing it.  And in the hours, I did go out and work in the yard.  I didn’t do much; I evicted some quite large weeds that had taken up residence and had been bothering me for quite some time.  It was cathartic.  I was surprised, actually, at how hard it was to pull some of them from the hard dirt.  They really, REALLY didn’t want to go.

When Mary and Lori got here we started our work for the day: underneath Maggie’s bathroom sink.  It’s not particularly complicated work but nonetheless it’s kept me perplexed now for, well, nearly two years.  Various bottles of hair stuff and face stuff and nail stuff that took up residence when we moved in or soon after had all but spoiled.  Many garbage pails of stuff had to be thrown out.  It surprised me at how hard it was to pull some of them from underneath the sink.  (I think it surprised Mary and Lori, too.)  But it was time for all that stuff to go… Some to Mary…. Some to Lori… Some to unknown recipients… Some to the garbage.

After we finished the monumental task of clearing out one (exactly one) counter, we were emotionally drained.  We packed up the dogs and headed to Red Barn Nursery to peruse the fresh spring plants.  It was quite a contrast to just moments before when we were separating out hair gel from hand lotion while unearthing under-the-sink emotional land mines.  Here, while we looked at caladiums and oxalis, my mind raced through years of memories of Maggie and me (and Niko) spending hours (and many, many dollars) at Red Barn, picking plants for our garden.  Now, I was there with Maggie’s mom and sister (and Niko and Kali) while they picked out plants for their gardens after spending a couple of hours throwing away my wonderful wife’s, their wonderful sister’s and daughter’s things.

I wish I could avoid the metaphor here.  I was certainly relieved when I finally pulled out those pesky few weeds that had been bothering me for so long.  I can’t really say I can feel relief about clearing out one more stack of stuff of Maggie’s.  Right now, when I look at the places her stuff used to be, I see great big holes, just like where the weeds used to be in my yard; there are big divots in the ground that are all dirt and no grass.  These empty holes dot the yard, just like the empty spots on Maggie’s side of the bathroom sure do stick out.

But I know grass will grow back in the yard and fill in those holes.  The grass around it may be a little shocked from the winter, but it’s good strong grass planted in good strong dirt.  It’ll take time but eventually, I won’t even be able to tell where those weeds used to be.  Heck, I might not even remember that they were there.  Ya know, before we started clearing out the cabinet, I took pictures.  Maybe I should have taken pictures of those weeds, too.

If you have been married, you might remember that weird transitional period, the in-between times when your mouth was learning how to form awkward phrases like “my wife” and “our house.”  You probably practiced each phrase out of earshot of the ball-and-chain so that when the right moment came up, you could sing them with elegance and ease… or at least so it didn’t sound like you were totally faking it.  The female version is more difficult: “my husband” is one thing.  Worse is learning to sign someone else’s name where your last name used to be.  Or answering to someone else’s name, I can’t even imagine.  Even if you haven’t been married, you still know the feeling.  Remember that day when the words “boyfriend” plopped out, like an accidental burp.  It was strange at first, then, over time and with practice, it became just what you said.  It became natural.  It was wonderful.  It was comfortable, like home.

So imagine that process in reverse.  How do you unravel those ten years of practicing the phrases that, despite the initial strangeness, we perfected?  How do you unravel something we… damn it… I loved?  So, so many things have to be renamed.  It’s not “our” house any more.  It’s “my” house.  It’s not “our” bed.  Now it’s “my” bed.  “Our” weekend.  “Our” plans.  “Our” life together.  “Our” kitchen.  “Our” closet – well, actually, it kinda still is “our” closet.  I’m working on that… still…. Slowly.

Some things, however, are much tougher.  Take, for instance, the phrase “my wife.”  It was such a strange and unfamiliar phrase to me seven years and one day ago.  Now what do I say instead?  Where do I go from there?  “My wife”?  It’s so natural now.  It’s how I still feel and probably always will.  But it’s also probably not best as I work on creating a new life for me. (Surely you can see how talking about “my wife” would impede that whole “new life” thing.)  “My ex-wife”?  Nope.  No way, no how.  Absolutely not.  No, no, no.  “My late wife”?  Daggers stab me in the heart.  Ice pierces my soul.  It’s unnatural.  It’s hateful.  It’s cold.  It’s dismissive.  It’s not loving.  And it doesn’t really roll off the tongue.  Factually, I suppose it’s the right/proper phrase.  Damn, I certainly don’t own it.  But like those early post-marriage days, I’m practicing saying it.  I don’t like it.  In fact, I hate it.  HATE IT.  I don’t want to own it.  I don’t want to say it.  But I am practicing.  Sadly, one day I’ll probably get it down and it’ll sound natural with maybe just a barely perceptible gnashing of teeth that no one will hear but me.

Another fine example: “mother-in-law.”  Where the hell do I go with this one?  “Late mother-in-law” certainly doesn’t work.  “Ex mother-in-law” gets the same rank: no way, no how.  At the risk of minimizing my relationship with my own mom, I think the best choice is just simply “mom.”  I’ll just call her mom.

The same goes with “sister-in-law.”  “Sister” however, is tough to pull off.  We’ve tried it and come up with frowns from the crowd.  “Ya’ll are related?!?!?” they asked.  It’s tough to dodge the obvious diverse genetics but we’ve stuck to our guns (and then quickly changed the subject.)

How about this one for a kick in the nuts: “our anniversary”?  “Can you use it in a sentence?” you ask.  How about “Today is our 7^th anniversary”?  Seven years ago, she walked down the aisle and into my arms until death did us part.  I remember it so clearly, like it was yesterday. Cliché but absolutely true.  What a glorious occasion.  Guys rarely say this but if I was to ever dream about a wedding, ours was just what I would have dreamed about.  It was absolutely perfect (and I said that before all this crap happened, too.)  But what do I call it now?  It’s not really OUR anniversary; we aren’t “married” any more.  Maybe it’s “my anniversary”?  But that doesn’t seem right either.  It was us together, “our.”  But “our” is no longer “us.”  It’s now just “me.”  Damn semantics.  Damn this all.

One day (he says optimistically), I’m going to have another “our anniversary” but on a different day with a different wonderful woman.  It’s true (I know so because I tell myself that each and every day.)  When that happens, it won’t be right to call both special days “our anniversary.”  If nothing else, imagine the confusion others might have.  So, like so many other things, I’ve got to find another name.

Well, I suppose I have to find another name eventually.  Just maybe not today.  Maybe just for today…   Maybe just for today I’ll still call it “our anniversary.”

Happy anniversary, My Angel, where ever you may be.  I miss you no more today than I did yesterday and no less than I will tomorrow.

Maybe I’m old fashion or, really, heck I’m not sure but something about her hair was wonderful to me.  It was long, straight, brown and, frankly, a little thin.  Not thin as in “falling out” but thin as in “fine” – she had very fine hair.  It was a part of her I loved: in my face, blowing in the wind, styled for going out, mussed up in the morning, wet up in a towel.  Man, come to think about it, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her with her hair up in a towel.  Maybe it’s been five years.  That’s a long time to miss something you really, really like.  I wish I would have taken a picture of that.

I think for a while those little hair holders represented hope.  Those, and the other hair accoutrements, we didn’t even think of why they wouldn’t belong here or why they shouldn’t stay.  Her hair dryer, hair curlers, oodles of hair products, hair brushes, hair holders….  All those things went from holding and shaping hair to holding and shaping hope.  If there were still hair products here then certainly there would be hair here again one day, right?  Hair like it used to be, right?

Wrong.

There’s a whole lot of magic in the moment when we were watching TV upstairs back in early 2007 when she looked over at me while holding in her hand that first little clump of lost hope.  In some ways I think we both thought it was interesting or even a little amusing; she and I were always up for an adventure.  Soon, however, a little more here and a little more there, more hope was lost.

Each shower we took together was punctuated by a little ball of brown, wet hair stuck to shower wall.  My job was to take the little brown ball and dispose of it.  Her job was to keep smiling.  We both did our jobs.  Every single day.  Until there wasn’t much hair left.  Thankfully for me, she kept smiling, even after the hair was gone.

That was the last we ever saw of her long, beautiful brown hair.  It grew back a little bit between various chemical affronts but there was never enough time for it to get very long.  She rocked the short hair, of course, and the bald head.  That girl couldn’t help but make everything pretty.

I never once told her how much I missed her long brown hair.